Super huge mega warning for non-consensual penetrative sex. It's dubious consent due to intoxication on one side and hella hella non-consensual on the other, it is unskippable, and it is described without flinching or glossing. If you feel you may be triggered by this, wait and skip to the next arc or find a pre-reader.

This is the end of this arc. Recovery arc has been split into a separate story to be posted later, "The Unlearning is Taking So Long"

Two days slide by with little more to mark them than the occasional stop of the wagon, each one an opportunity to stretch her legs and find limited privacy, and a few simple meals. Cullen spends most of that time in a daze, staring blankly ahead, jaw clenched but otherwise barely responsive to the outside world, save exhausted, unsteady curses for the Crows. Heloise, on the other hand, stays wide awake and close to him, never certain if his torpor will turn to some sort of illness.

Sometimes he lifts his ungloved hand and grips a few strands of her hair, rubbing them in between his fingers. He wears an intense look of concentration as he does this, and Hel wonders if he's still entirely within the grip of the Fade. What could prompt him to do it?

But on the third morning, the Crow leader doesn't make Cullen drink more of the milk of the poppy, to what she suspects is the sardonic amusement of his men. He simply lets them out. Cullen's movements are shaky, and Hel keeps an eye on him. She notes a few of the Crows doing the same, but they seem less worried he's going to attack them and more worried he'll collapse. Still, if he stumbles, he catches himself without need of aid. And as the morning wears on, he seems more and more himself.

He's the first one to hear the stream. She sees his entire body stiffen, and then his head turns toward the sound. Hel would have been none too familiar with the noise before camping all over the Hinterlands and the Emerald Graves, but now she recognizes it.

Water moving over stone. Going somewhere. Quick, and almost quiet beneath the sound of forest life.

The Crow leader smiles. Heloise has spent too much time in his company to think that sweet, blithe expression is anything but cruel. He's thinking up something awful.

"I assume the pair of you would like a chance to bathe?" The apostate asks.

Something in Hel's stomach tightens, then coils into a knot. When she looks over to Cullen, he's staring at the Crow leader with a wary expression.

"No catch," the apostate tells them, voice coppery and bright, and Hel thinks: Not yet, at least.

The first downside to this bathing idea: there is no feasible way to bathe in privacy. She doubts she would be given it even if it were possible under the circumstances. But she knows how to accept such. The Circle had no room for modesty, either; at least the Crows are unlikely to beat her for shielding what skin she can. They gave her soap and cloth, as well, and she cannot believe how thankful she is for such a small blessing. She almost doesn't care about the price she surely must pay for it later.

Heloise doesn't even pause before she unlaces her boots, then shucks her shirt and breeches.

The second downside is the season. Even in high summer, the stream would likely be quite cold. It's shaded, and deep, and moves far too quickly for the stones in its bed to hold much heat. So as it is, in this early spring, it's like stepping naked into iceflow. She hisses as the water chills her toes and ankles, and hisses more as it rises to her knees, her thighs. By the time it reaches her waist, she's shivering.

Cullen, being taller, must of necessity venture deeper. He goes past her, and Hel gets an eyeful of his broad shoulders, the muscles of his back. Also his arse. She hasn't really been in a position to notice it before, but the water's so cold that she barely registers it before she's scrubbing at her skin with a swatch of sack cloth.

She must peel away dirt three layers deep. By the time she finishes with the cloth, she's gone through a quarter of the soap and her skin is red from the vigor of her attempts to clean herself.

So she starts in on her hair. Ordinarily, she'd be horrified at the thought of using a lye soap on her head, but she's so greasy she's not sure how much damage it will really do. She makes sure to lather it in her hands and dilute some of the lather with water, at least.

Cullen is faster than she is. She's still working soap into her hair when he passes by her again. He pauses for a moment — with his back to her, closer to the shore than she is — and then evidently decides to wait. Hel isn't sure if it's kind or cruel of him.

Her teeth are chattering by the time she wades her way back to dry land, but Cullen is straight-backed and calm. She can see random blotches of pink on his back and arms, as though his body has responded to the cold by flushing unevenly, but otherwise he seems perfectly hale. Hel would curse his Fereldan hardiness to cold, but it's honestly too good to see him healthy and well and clear-headed. For now, she can begrudge him nothing.

He chuckles when she draws next to him. It's a low, bitter, ragged sound that makes her heart ache. "How long will this last, do you think?"

The answer, of course, is 'not long.' But what she says is, "Shall we ask them?"

It draws another ragged laugh out of Cullen, as it was meant to. He looks over at her, and his expression is startlingly gentle. His eyes are bright in the dappling of forest sunlight, but though his shoulders and neck are tense, he holds his jaw more softly.

"You're being sentimental about something."

"Perhaps I'm remembering the hike through the Frostbacks."

"Only a Fereldan would prefer a snowy trek across the bloody mouth of the world to a decent forest stroll." There's no bite to her voice; at this point, she's just reveling in the fact that he's clear-headed enough to take a little ribbing.

When he laughs this time, it's a more throaty, rumbling sound, and Hel finds herself wondering where exactly he learned to fake flirtatious chuckling. He steps in closer to her, bumping her shoulder with his arm hard enough to affect her walk, and drops his voice to say, "If you can get me a knife, I can have three of them dead the next time they —"

Hel cuts him off with a sunny, flirtatious laugh of her own. Her parents have always held that, unlike the rest of their children, the sound of Hel's amusement is perhaps the most unfortunate sounding thing in the world, so she throws in an ungraceful snort. She smacks Cullen's arm, as if to jokingly punish him for some dreadful Fereldan pun or come-on.

"You're terrible," she says, and then, no quieter but in a blatant come hither tone, "I'll consider it."

Relief flashes across Cullen's face, there and gone again in a quicksilver flash.

When they reach the wagon, the Crows pour drops of their awful brown tincture into a flask of water again. Oddly enough, it's not the Crow leader who mixes the tincture, but one of the subordinates. Hel watches, and if she had been frozen before, now she seethes and simmers with rage at the sight of Cullen drinking it. At the sight of his mouth twisting as he throws his head back to take long pulls. He shakes his head when he finishes, as if that will stave away whatever haze the tincture swamps him in.

"You have used lye on your hair," the lead Crow remarks to her as Cullen climbs into the wagon.

She keeps her voice cool when she replies, "It was the only soap I had."

At this, the Crow leader nods, and then he dismisses her utterly to go digging in a saddlebag. What galls her most is that he's right to. With Cullen in the wagon and soon to be held in the Fade's grasp, what can she hope to accomplish? Where could she go, without leaving him behind? And she will not leave him behind; it would take no great philosopher or student of human nature to see that.

At length, the Crow returns with a small, flat flask of some golden liquid.

"It would not do for you to destroy your appearance, my dear Herald. I must deliver you in good health and as lovely as ever." He crooks a smirk, and offers the flask. "Brush this in. It should heal some of the damage you've done yourself."

"And it smells nice, too. Giving you an excuse to let us go as long without bathing again?" Hel takes the flask regardless. Let him think her cooperative or vain or both. Why should she waste energy fighting with him about this, when she needs to find some way to get out of this madman's clutches?

He laughs at her. "Oh no! I actually rather enjoyed the sight. You are both lovely specimens, and I must say being clean shows you to your best advantage." He pauses, and the crooked smirk turns smarmy. "Although you are quite lovely sleep mussed and with your Commander's prick in your mouth."

There is no stopping, no hiding the burn of shame at that. She wishes she weren't ashamed, but her conscience is not clear enough to let her think herself a victim. She can't even come up with a reply, and he laughs at her silence.

Climbing into the wagon — away from him — is practically a mercy. She wearily settles in by Cullen. As the minutes slide by, charted out only by the slow drip of water soaking into the back of her shirt and the cart's bouncing gait forward, Cullen's drugged fascination with her hair returns. When she works the damnable oil onto her scalp and begins to comb it through, Cullen seems greatly intrigued by the process.

Eventually, she hands the comb to Cullen and lets him drag it down. His strokes are heavy, uncoordinated, and at times she has to bite back the urge to swear and take the comb back. At least three of his jerky movements threaten to yank her hair from her skull; either he's too used to being ruthless with his own grooming, or he's not aware enough of himself to be of much help. Still, she lets him keep going.

The scent of lavender fills her nose, and every so often, she hears the soft inhale as he takes in the smell, too.

The mummer's price comes when they stop for the evening.

The evening meal, at least, is uneventful. Cullen pokes at the bread and cheese the Crows offer him, clearly aware that he should be doing something with it, but just as clearly unsure if he's actually interested in eating. He takes a long time to finish it off, and is shaky when he drinks a canteen of water and climbs back into the wagon. His gaze has remained almost entirely blank.

Before Hel can follow him, the Crow leader stands. He jerks his chin at her and then moves away from the gathering of Crows. Rather than Cullen, she follows the Crow.

The first thing out of his mouth is: "Let neither of us pretend the other is a fool."

"Done," she says, and forces her tone to stay light and easy.

"You are trying to plan again." He holds a palm up. "This is natural; you have adjusted to your situation. But I cannot have it. So we must… change things, yes?"

He knows. Hel stares at him, and the fury that had simmered at the sight of Cullen swallowing the poppy tincture returns, burning low in her gut and rising up and commingling with the sudden icy inrush of fear to make her lightheaded. The gall of this hateful little man. The risk she'd been preparing to take. And now —

"You do not like us to damage your Commander. If you do not do as I ask, I will have little choice but to flog him." He curves his mouth in a smile like a short bow, and says, "I am going to have to insist you take him to bed. That, I think, should leave the both of you off balance enough that the planning will cease?"

She doesn't even have to think before replying, "Then flog him."

The Crow's eyes widen for a moment. "So bloodthirsty, so quickly?"

He cannot possibly understand the extent of her thirst for blood. Specifically his blood. Hel gives him her flattest stare and makes no reply, and he seems to take her meaning.

With a heavy sigh, he unbuckles a pouch at his belt, and withdraws a vial. It's small and flat, much like the one containing hair oil, but its contents are blue. Worse yet, it glows in the gloom of the forest around him, lambent, and she can smell it, metal and magic, through the glass.

"What do you think he would do right now, with his sorry state, if I uncorked this and offered it to him?"

Her breath freezes in her throat. When did he learn of Cullen's struggle with lyrium? How did he learn of it? Is there a traitor within Skyhold?

"I have no wish to take such a drastic measure, Herald. But do consider what might happen to him in the grip of the lyrium." That perfectly pleasant, perfectly reasonable smile flashes again, white in his dark face, and he adds, "I promised to deliver you unmarked. Him? I could toss him to my men this instant, and the Guild would not care."

She clenches her left hand into a fist. The Anchor wakes for a moment, but she stares straight ahead, at the Crow. "I wouldn't help you, no matter what your Guild said or what they showed me. Hurt him further, and I let Antiva burn."

Once again, he laughs at her. He throws his head back with the force of it, exposing his throat, and Hel is seized by the perfectly rational desire to drive her fist into that column of flesh.

"If I believed even a single word of that, we would indeed be at an impasse! But unfortunately for you — and for your Commander — I do not. You would hate me and my Guild. You might even do us some damage. But you would not let an entire country be overrun with demons for the sake of one man. You are not so spiteful."

She wishes she were. She wishes this Crow did not have such a thorough measure of her.

"I have given you your choice," he says, and his voice is quiet, serious. "You have an hour."

The Crow heads away from her. The other Crows have all turned to watch their exchange, and she sees a few of the elves' eyes glow in the darkness. The realization that they've had an audience all along brings heat to her cheeks, and she clenches her fists again. Hate tangles in her stomach, twining up to tighten her lungs, as she realizes that this entire situation galls her, chokes her.

She wants the Crows dead. She wants their leader dead. She wants to rage at Cullen for allowing this, as if either of them has had any choice in this matter. As if he hasn't been as much or more a victim as she.

Heloise climbs into the wagon to try and speak to him. He's collapsed onto one of the blankets, sprawled out as if he hasn't a care in the world. That may even be so; his eyes are heavy-lidded and his pupils blown.

She kneels next to him. When he turns his attention her way, she realizes that she hasn't even the beginning of an idea how to discuss this with him.

Finally, she asks, "Cullen?"

He blinks at her a few times. After a moment, he asks, "Heloise? What's wrong?" His words slur together slightly, but he sounds mostly sober. Tired, and as if his mouth is benumbed, but sober.

"They want me to make a choice for you. They want me to choose whether you're… whether you're assaulted or whether you're given lyrium and then assaulted."

He stares blearily at her.

"Cullen," she says. "Please don't leave me to choose this for you."

His bleary stare turns bemused. "They know about…?"

"They do. I don't know how. I swear, I've said nothing to them of it."

Cullen nods. "I trust you," he says. And then he says, "I don't… I don't want… I trust you." He's still slurring his words, still sleepy-eyed and far, far too relaxed for the situation they're in.

Hel is tempted to shake him, or slap him. Anything to rouse him from this near stupor, but his mouth lolls half open as he reclines again. The tension in his shoulders, the subtle lines that mar his face, have eased.

She climbs back down from the wagon and feels sick to her stomach at the thought of what will soon happen. The other Crows, the lesser ones, all stare at her. One or two even wear expressions of pity, and one looks disquieted. But surely hardened assassins know no such feelings.

He wants to break them both. She can see that. That damnable Crow wants some combination of mistrust, humiliation, anger, and guilt to drive a wedge between them. Make sure they can't cooperate to get free. And he wants, Hel thinks as she watches his men turn to stare sullenly, or make wry comments in Antivan, to assert authority.

But understanding the ruthless arithmetic behind his decisions doesn't make watching him unhook the wagon cover any easier. Some part of her mind does arithmetic of its own, realizing that it's safer for Cullen to stay in the wagon by this point.

And he's more likely to be comfortable there, where he's drifted for hours, dreaming. He'll care less about any possible audience.

So Hel hoists herself into the wagon once again. She stops, hesitating, and the Crow leader reaches up with an oil lantern. Of course he does. Still, she reaches down and takes it, adjusting the wick until the light brightens, and then sets it in a far corner of the wagon.

Cullen turns his head toward her. He tilts his head as he looks at her. He doesn't even seem surprised when she kneels in front of him.

She says his name. Once, twice, again, until she has his attention. His brow knits and his lips part, as if he's about to ask her something.

So she leans in and kisses him. His lips are as soft as they were a few mornings ago, cool and dry. When she presses one hand against his cheek, she finds that the stubble on his cheeks and jaw have lengthened into pale scruff.

He doesn't respond at first, just lets her kiss him. And then he relaxes more into the furred blanket he's been lying on, tipping his head back and opening his mouth for her. It's far too easy to tilt her head a little more, to sink down to the blanket with him until she has a knee between his legs.

His pleased grunt buzzes from his mouth to hers, and then she presses her tongue between his parted lips.

He buries a hand in her hair, at the nape of her neck. When she takes his lower lip between her teeth, Cullen makes a noise low in his throat.

She breaks the kiss — he makes a noise of disappointment — and leans back. Hel has to bat Cullen's hands away when he reaches for her, though his eyes widen as she begins to unbutton her shirt. He reaches for her again after she flings the shirt away, and this time, she lets him.

His fingers trace her collarbones first, before he skims the very tips of them over her breasts. After a moment, his hand slides lower, until he's resting his thumb just below them, his hand splayed almost possessively over her stomach. She'd be more confused if his gaze wasn't so obviously focused on her breasts. He even bites his lower lip as he stares.

Cullen lifts his other hand for a moment, but then he settles it on her hip. As if he's not sure he's allowed to touch.

The guilt threatens to swamp her. He trusts her, he said. He'll never trust her again, and he damned well shouldn't.

She straddles him regardless, and lifts the hand on her stomach until he's loosely cupping one of her breasts. His eyes widen even more, but he needs no encouragement to cup her more firmly, to squeeze.

Hel very nearly yelps. Surely he meant to be gentle — she can't believe otherwise — but if so, he's forgotten his own strength. The pain is a hot, sharp lance through the flesh of her. From the way the burn goes on even after he releases her to rub his thumb in circles around her nipple, she knows there will be bruises.

Still, she squares her shoulders and cups the back of his head. Even after that sharp jolt of pain, she finds it far too easy to draw his head down.

Rather than do as she expected and press his mouth to her nipple, he lays a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss against her breast and then tries to pull her in closer to him. His fingers dig into the meat of her bicep as he tries to position them, and dig harder when they nearly lose balance. His touch leaves a kind of hot ache in the shape of his hand, but then he mouths kisses along her throat.

When she arches her spine and throws her head back, chasing more of the feeling of his hot mouth against her, his teeth and stubble scraping, he kisses her harder. He sucks at her throat hard enough to leave marks. Maker's breath, he sucks so hard she yelps and tries to pull away, only to be caught by a grip at the nape of her neck. His hands are firm, and she wonders if that, too, will stain.

"So beautiful," Cullen slurs against her skin.

She needs to distract him from this. Feeling sick, she shifts in his lap until she's poised just over the hard bulge in his trousers. It's second nature to grind down, then to make sure she traps his prick when she stays seated astride him. His breath is a ragged gasp, and he closes his hands around her hips.

They move together. She rocks against him, ashamed at how good the friction feels, even through her trousers. The shame tightens in her stomach, mingling with the tension of arousal, until she can't tell one from the other, even as she feels the heat of him beneath her.

His grip on her hips tightens, until she can see red marks peeking out from beneath his fingers. She doesn't care; she keeps rocking, at once loving and hating the sensation of her body colliding with his. Soon, his thumbs are sliding into the waistband of her breeches, and she can see by the lantern light that his eyes are still blown.

"Take… take them off," he pants in her ear. His words all jumble together, like his tongue is stumbling over itself, but she understands him.

Shimmying out of her trousers without leaving his lap is an awkward prospect, but she manages. She's not sure where they land, but it's not like it matters. Cullen takes a moment before his gaze drops, as if he's having trouble keeping up with what happens around him.

He slides his hands down her hips, over her thighs. For once his touch is gentle, despite the roughness of his calluses. He presses his thumb against the knob of her hipbone, then pulls it away. Press, release. Press, release.

"Yes," she tells him, amused despite herself. She shouldn't laugh at him. He never asked for this. He's not even thinking clearly. "That's my hipbone."

His fingers slide lower again, past dark curls, until he's parting her folds.

Far too much of her thinks: oh, Maker, yes, though the rest of her wants to pull away. She freezes, caught between knowing she can't choose this for him, that she should stop this — and knowing that she dare not stop.

His thumb finds his her clit. She shifts at the feel of his warm, callused fingertip there. The movement rocks her against his hand, and she can't stop the gasp that escapes her mouth.

But Cullen has at least some memory of what he's about. He's clumsy, slow, but he knows to tease his thumb in slow circles around her. Pressing in, never quite hard enough to be painful but too hard to give her something as simple as pleasure. Long, lingering swipes that gradually move closer in, until she's slick and struggling to breathe from want.

He pushes two fingers within her. He does that slowly, too, smoothly, even though she clenches out of instinct. It's an invasion, one that leaves her tense, and she can't forget about it even after he returns his attention to her clit.

Hel has just begun to believe that this, at least, will not hurt, when his thumbnail catches on her skin. She opens her mouth to say something, but then she feels the scratch, and she does jerk this time. Which only hurts more, as his fingers are still within her, and the sudden stretch is painful.

To his credit, he doesn't wait to ask, in a drug-blurred voice, "Did I hurt you?"

Yes, she wants to snarl. Did he not feel that? Did he not notice what his own hand was doing? But instead she says, "It's fine. I'm fine." Though she wants to roll away from him, end this farce with both their dignities intact, she opens her mouth and says, "Don't stop."

He doesn't. Maker have mercy on them both, but he doesn't.

The pad of his thumb touches her again, much more lightly. And then he begins those damnable sweeping circles, the ones that tease her, that warm her low and sure. He draws her closer and closer to the edge even as he draws closer and closer to her clit. It leaves her so damnably full and buzzing, tensing against the edge of pleasure. He curves and straightens his fingers in her, and she rocks against his hand, hips moving in short, helpless jerks that she can't stop.

The pleasure and the tension begin to stack, one and one and one on top of the other. Like books in a heaping pile, building and tightening low in her stomach, until they become almost unbearable. She cannot sustain these feelings commingled, cannot survive them.

She's grateful when she finally breaks, Cullen's fingers crooked inside her and his hand hot on her skin. She can only gasp into his shoulder, her breath as out of control as the way her body clenches and relaxes. She almost collapses, and the only thing stopping her is Cullen's hand suddenly on her back. His other hand is still between them, partly within her, and surely slick with the leavings of her own enjoyment.

When Hel looks up, his eyes are dark with the mix of drugs and desire, and his chest heaves.

"Cullen?" She asks.

He draws his lower lip down, biting into it, and then tips his head down toward her. It's easy to lean back and let him kiss her, open-mouthed and messy.

He says, "Heloise." And his voice is ragged with want, deep as his cry just a few nights ago. "Heloise," he begs again, and when she squirms in his lap, he withdraws his hand from her.

Close your eyes, she tells herself. Close your eyes, and pretend this is what you both want.

Hel reaches down and begins to untie the laces of his breeches. He leans back enough to allow it, though he jumps, as if startled, when she takes him in hand. She stops, her hand stilling as the hairs on the back of her neck rise.

"I need — Cullen, I need to hear that you want this."

"I want this," he tells her, hoarse and raw, without a moment of hesitation. "Heloise, I want this."

What follows should be the simple matter of guiding him within her. And yes, part of it is simple — lining the blunt head up, forcing herself to sink down upon his prick. That last goes slowly, though. He's a perfectly respectable length — their Maker be praised — but he's thick, and she is unused to such girth. The stretch starts out as a shrieking pain, as if her body is crying out too much, too much. And yet, as she eases him into her, it turns to a sort of satisfaction, and then it turns easy, comfortable, good. She is stretched around him, full of him; they are more than enmeshed, they are matched.

By the time she's fully seated, she's clinging to Cullen's neck and taking in deep breaths. From the way pleasure warms her and then pain sparks through like fire, like the Anchor, her body isn't sure if it's being punished or rewarded. And as she begins a slow, melodic roll of her hips, pain and pleasure blur into something many-faceted and complicated and yet, at the heart, simple.

Cullen's hand tangles in her hair, gripping the back of her head, while his other drops to her waist.

"Maker's breath," he murmurs, even as he drops his head to press his mouth against her shoulder. "We fit so well."

As if made for each other, she almost agrees. But what she says is, "Cullen. Cullen. Move."

He seems confused a moment, before grinding his hips up to meet her. They take a few moments to settle into a rhythm, but it's not the one either of them needs. She's too tentative, and he's too unbalanced to find any purchase with her in his lap.

So Hel widens the splay of her legs and leans back. Cullen seems to sense her meaning, because soon he's trying to gentle her fall back to the floorboards of the wagon. He's swiftly between her parted thighs, pressing against and inside her. She smiles to encourage him, hooking one leg around his waist, reaching up to touch his cheek.

Cullen responds by digging his fingers into her hip and thigh.

"Move," she tells him again.

He does. He moves in deep, slow thrusts that seem to pierce right to the core of her. She's so far beyond feelings as simple as good or bad, now, that she isn't sure if he's hurting her or if it's just right. Only sensation and response are left to her, and she indulges them both, turning this travesty into the push and pull she would have wanted, if it were real.

Hel knots her fingers in his hair, tugging gently to draw him down to her. He leans down after the long moments it takes him to realize what she wants, never missing a beat in the pace he's set. Hel kisses him, trailing her mouth from his stubbled cheek to his soft lips, and clenches her inner walls around him.

His rhythm doesn't cease, but she hears his pleasure pull a noise from his throat. She can feel its vibration passing between them, and it's so good, so easy to open her mouth and let him deepen the kiss. He's sloppy with it, his wet mouth opening too wide, his tongue probing and slick, and his hips never still, driving into her.

And then his thrusts speed up, without turning shallower. He's pounding into her harder, faster, so deep that the knife edge of pleasure and pain she's been balanced upon turns on her, sharp and hot. It feels closer to being stabbed. His gasps turn to faint whines, low in his throat, while her own sighs turn to tiny noises of hurt.

She breaks the kiss and pants out, "Cullen, Cullen, please." She's not sure if she's begging him to slow down his chase of his own pleasure or if she's begging him to stop, to wake up, to recall that neither of them wants this.

But he doesn't slow, and soon it becomes almost unbearable. She's too full, too stretched, and it burns red and hot, sudden spikes of agony at each of his thrusts. That, too, becomes a rhythm: there are moments of mere pain followed by a torment she's not sure she can endure, followed by the easier, if unpleasant, feeling of being half-emptied.

And then his thrusts slow again. It lasts long enough to let the fire halfway abate, but then he's speeding up again. He seems to draw right up on the edge of release and then back away again, slowing his pace.

Maker's breath, how long can this go on for? Is this some symptom of the poppy's milk tincture, or of lyrium withdrawal?

Hel lets her hands slide to Cullen's waist, then up his back, beneath his tunic. She presses her fingers to the knobs of his spine, tries to lose herself enough in her hands that she can ignore the relentless tide of his body against and within hers.

Slow, deep thrusts, then a quick, jackrabbiting hammering at her, then back to slow —

She digs her fingers into his back, lets her nails bite deep, and then drags them. Hard and slow as the passage of hours. She feels warm wetness well up to follow her nails as she drags them, and Cullen gasps. His hips still, whole body tensing, even as he lets out a low cry.

Under other circumstances — if he had been gentler — she might have felt the pulse of his climax. But her whole lower body throbs, and his own reactions are lost within it.

She is relieved beyond words when Cullen finally sighs. It's over. It must be over. She squirms and writhes, hissing, "Out, I need you out," through her teeth at him. She hisses more when he withdraws from her, but then sighs as her body finally relaxes. The tension goes out of her, leaving her limp as a cut bowstring.

It all returns when Cullen gathers her in his arms. She can't help stiffening, even as he gently pulls her to the pile of furs they foolishly didn't use. She hears his movements pause, and the soft rustle of cloth, before he drapes himself atop her. He tucks her essentially under one arm, like a child with a stuffed nug, and presses a kiss to the back of her neck.

His exertions appear to have exhausted him; she hears his heavy, even breathing within moments. She, however, lies within the circle of his arms and feels something hot and wet pulse out of her, too much and too thick to be his seed. Blood, she thinks, considering how badly everything hurt. It still stings within her, too immediate for her to close her eyes and escape.

In his carelessness, he has torn her inside. Even though she knows it isn't his fault — she seduced a man she knew to be intoxicated — some part of her seethes. The rest of her is a bundle of shame and hatred. This is a punishment she richly deserves, for her crime against him.

There are soft footsteps, the very faintest sound of someone or something landing in the wagon, and then the lantern gutters out. Or someone turns down its wick until it snuffs. More whispers of footsteps, and then the sounds of the screens being put back up.

She stiffens further, trying to wake her mana without waking the Anchor, as the Crow approaches her.

But then someone lifts her hand and stuffs a dagger into it.

"I will rouse him enough to give him more of the tincture," a voice, much more strongly accented than the Crow leader's, tells her. He pauses, and then, as delicately as a cat stepping into an unfamiliar room, he offers, "I can clean him up. He need not know the whole of what happened here."

"He'll think you did it."

"And should he not? We are the architects of this night."

She lets her head loll against the furs. As soundly as she's hurt him tonight, any chance at making things easier on him in what must come next — how can she regret that? How can she hesitate?

"Do as you will. Let him have another reason to hate you. It might even be best for him."

She hears cloth rustling and a quiet whistle of astonishment. "Mother of Mercy, he is as thick in blood as if he tried to murder you, Herald."

Her voice is strangely hoarse in her throat when she says, "He wasn't thinking clearly. He wasn't in control of himself."

But the Crow says nothing further. He is back at her side within moments. She sees the faint glint of eyes in the darkness, and realizes he must be one of the elves. He presses a small vial of something glowing and blue into her hands.

"We did not all agree with Federico," he says. "I trust you will need no more than these trifles?" Even as he asks this, he slips a blanket over the pair of them.

"No more," Heloise agrees, and realizes that she could be saying that about any number of things.

No more, she thinks again, as she finally drifts off to sleep, naked in Cullen's arms, body protesting against this night's treatment. She reaches out for the Fade, and does not care if Ostwick's bright shadow falls over her dreams again. She is gladder than she has ever been when the Fade finally opens its arms to her, and she sinks into its blissful blackness.

hey jude don't make it bad
just take a sad song
and make it better
remember to let her into your heart
then you can start
to make it better
— The Beatles, "Hey Jude"